


Handwriting

by AlexKrenin



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2018-03-08 22:07:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3225200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexKrenin/pseuds/AlexKrenin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Tumblr prompt for some Malcolm/ollie sweet violence.<br/>Post-series. Happens in the chaos of the battle for Malcolm's abandoned job.<br/>Darkness, rough sex and harsh words. Do not come here looking for fluff. There is none.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Handwriting

I remember the exact moment when I knew. It was long before his last words on TV, long before he even made this speech to me about this job eating away at his soul.

 

It was that day, as the door of the Goolding Inquiry closed behind him, one late thursday evening, I remember that. I thought at this time he was handling things quite brilliantly, actually. His retorts were sly and clever, his answers bringing more confusion than any question asked, and he was driving the Inquiry positively insane. Malcolm Tucker Trademark, ladies and gentlemen.

 

I actually believed in him at this time.

 

But at that very moment, as the door closed in a loud bang and our gazes crossed, I knew that _**he didn't**_.

 

Not anymore.

 

 

 

He rummaged into his jacket inside pocket, pulled out his glasses, put them on with the classiest gesture I've ever seen and faked some shuffling through his folder.

Too late, I had seen it. Clear as daylight.

 

Malcolm Tucker was finished.

 

 

There was something tired in his moves for a minute, something exhausted, as if a thousand years of humanity's filth and darkness were clinging to his shoulders, bringing him down. There was something awful in his eyes, as if the last spark of his youth had just died, shot by the gunfire of the closing door.

 

Malcolm Tucker was dead.

 

And though I should have been glad, oh, how I should have, because his downfall would irrevocably mean my own rise. Because I was a thread away from taking his chair, so ready I was to _be him_ at last...

I only felt a deep, burning feeling of emptiness. Something I'm not sure I had ever felt before. Oh, thank you Malcolm, thank you very much.

 

I wish I could have walked away, but I stood there, nailed to the ground, my eyes upon him. Trapped in the sight of him, God knows why.

 

Soon enough the minute was gone, and he walked past me, never foolish enough to meet my stare a second time. The elevator swallowed him, and there was no doubt that next time I'd see him, he'd be composed and carved in stone again.

 

I wish I could have forgotten it all, but I brought this glimpse of him home with me that night.

And I carried it in my mind, wherever I went, until much, much later on.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I didn't get to see him that much. Until that speech, that weird, desperate speech I had no idea how to answer to. Mostly because his glimpse of emptiness had never really left me, and was at that point very much distracting. After that, all I did hear and see of him were those seconds of deadly silence on the telly, in a haze of blurry pictures and TV Channels microphones.

 

How I should have been glad. How I wished I could have been.

 

 

I was supposed to be. I had strongly planned to be.

 

 

But there was something in his eyes, in those last seconds, on that bloody television screen. A thousand years and so much work. Sleepless nights and finger biting. Shameless lies and dark secrets. Burnt skin and broken bones. There was a whole world in those eyes. The eyes of a man who had seen far, far too much.

 

Even as I walked among the smiles and sighs of the rejoiced, even if my name was carved on the wall of the winners, promised to higher grounds, hello, future.

 

Even then.

 

This hole in my guts, gaping, screeching, kept me awake at night.

 

 

 

Even as my hand was shaken by countless hands, my name called by countless voices, even then.

 

The damage was done, the seed was sowed.

From that moment at the Inquiry's door, as I peeked by accident into an open window to his soul, Malcolm's emptiness had already been eating up my heart.

 

 

The sheer agony of it was already unbearable.

 

Eighteen months until I break, he said.

 

 

 

As things were, I didn't think I'd make it to eighteen days.

 

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

 

And yet, I had things to do. A train to catch, a bird to shoot. Something not to be missed, the opportunity of a lifetime. I was supposed to do it, I had strongly planned to do it.

 

I didn't understand why I couldn't actually do it.

 

His office was empty, and the vultures were raging around it. Every blow allowed, no limits, no rules. No friendship, no promise, no word, no trust. The battle roared around me, and for God's sake I had been preparing for this for two long years.

 

Why couldn't I lift a bloody finger?

 

 

I just sat at my own desk, my phone in my hands, distorted chunks of music in my mind, in torturing, endless, empty loops. All their voices, their handshakes, their calls, dulled and distant. The only continuous thread in this fabric of nightmare was the recurring memory of Malcolm Tucker's eyes.

 

I was literally sensing the job slipping through my fingers as I sat there unmoving, numb, dazed.

 

This gaping black hole in me growing, growing to the broken sound of his last words.

 

 

“ _Doesn't matter”._

 

 

Doesn't matter.

 

 

 

At some point, I somehow realized my name was slowly sinking down the list of favourites for Malcolm's chair. I must have sparked to life briefly upon hearing that I was coming after Phil Smith.

 

I had prepared for this. I had planned everything. I was so ready.

 

 

Why couldn't I even bother?

 

 

“ _Doesn't matter”._

 

 

Oh, thank you Malcolm. Thank you very much.

 

 

 

 

 

Later on, as I slowly grew oblivious to the dazed sounds of the raging war for Malcolm's abandoned throne, I think I started considering other jobs. Things I wanted to do when I was a kid. I've always loved theatre. Maybe I could sign up for that art school again.

 

 

One day, upon my seventh hour at work doing practically nothing, I realized I had received no handshake, no call, no speech on that day. Looking around, I numbly noticed that they all passed by me, blind and deaf to my existence, busy fighting their battles, loosing their minds. I had become background, faded into the office walls so easy, so fast. There were a couple of new faces I didn't even know the name of.

 

 

Train missed. Bird gone.

 

I didn't understand then. I had planned. I had prepared.

 

 

“ _Doesn't matter”._

 

 

Said the void in my brain.

 

 

 

Looking up at the date on the corner of my laptop screen, oh, of course, Malcolm, _of course_.

I started giggling madly.

 

 

_Eighteen days exactly._

 

 

 

I was sure I was hearing his laughter right behind my back.

When I turned around, I was alone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I think I was leaving, when I got the phone call. It was thursday, around 3pm, but I didn't care at all. I was heading home, to the sound of broken tunes and Malcolm Tucker's voice. I was thinking about some pizza, and filling that form for the art school. I was thinking of, maybe, not even coming back to the office. For a week.

 

For a month.

 

 

The black hole in me had smudged every line, blurred every thought.

 

 

 

“ _Doesn't matter”._

 

 

Looking at my phone screen, I almost laughed out lout. Tom Davis. PM. Personal line. A number I stole from Malcolm's own Blackberry index.

 

Expecting a lame joke as a last spray of flowers to my career's funeral, I picked up, and the void in my brain sneered at my recklessness.

 

 

>”Oliver Reeder?”

 

-”Yes.”

 

>”Ah, good. I'd like to... discuss a few things with you, if you're available of course.”

 

-”A few things?”

 

Distant noises I couldn't decipher. My messed up, hurried scanning of what bloody mistake I could have made to earn the PM's attention. Finding none. I did none. I actually did nothing.

Absolutely nothing, for eighteen days.

 

 

>”Tomorrow, 9am, my office?” The voice came back.

 

I didn't care. All I wanted to know was if, yes or no, I was fucking walking blunder he wanted to bollock freestyle, because if I was, I wasn't bloody going anywhere near that office, because I had my share of bollocking while Malcolm was still around, thank you.

 

PM or King of England.

 

 _Doesn't matter_.

 

 

-”What few things?”

 

>”Oh. Well, as you are surely aware, the Labour Party is in need of a new Head of Communications officer. I am looking for someone with strong recommendations, you see. You appear to be the one with the strongest.”

 

-”You have recommendations. For me. As Head of Communications.”

 

>” The best that can be found. And, truly, the only ones that matter to me. I've got here on my desk a letter signed by Malcolm Tucker's hand...”

 

I didn't hear the rest.

 

I heard his voice inside my head, I breathed into the void inside my heart.

 

I closed my eyes and he was there. Inquiry door. Walking past me. I almost smelled his cologne for a second. Oh, God, I'm going mad.

 

-”Tomorrow 9am. I'll be there” the ghost of my voice must have said.

 

>”Thank you Mister Reeder. I look forward to meeting you.

 

-”The very same.”

 

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

 

My mind is a blur from that moment to now.

 

 

I am in front of Malcolm Tucker's house, my finger on his doorbell.

 

 

I know he didn't go to prison. He had the best lawyers money could buy and I don't think he even needed them. Malcolm has strings to pull strings. Nothing can make me believe he hadn't prepared for the worst. I have no idea what has become of him, but certainly not prison.

 

True, he had to leave, but you can't just strip a man like him from twenty years of absolute power. Behold the proof, that very insane phone call I've just received. He has strings to pull strings.

 

And even from beyond the grave, Malcolm Tucker shall keep on pulling.

 

 

 

I hear footsteps, and realize where I am, and what I am doing. Standing on Malcolm Tucker's doorstep, eighteen days after. _Oh God, I'm going mad_. On pure instinct I step back, but too late. The door opens, and for pity's sake, not those eyes again.

 

 

Distracted by the sight of him, in light blue sweater and regular jeans, a cup of coffee in his hand, barefoot, his hair looking a bit longer though it seriously cannot be, falling in thin threads of silver on his brow, it takes minutes for me to grasp that for the first time in eighteen days, the black hole in me has stopped screeching.

 

 

 

-”Oliver” he states quietly. “Tom called, then.”

 

He doesn't wait for any kind of reply. He just slides back inside, leaving the door open for me.

 

I follow his steps, far to peaceful at last to even consider how the hell I've ended up here.

 

 

He looks fine. He put on some weight. Not much, just a little more flesh around his bony, lean frame. Makes him look a bit younger. Fifty, perhaps, instead of fifty-five. Modern jazz is playing in the living room, and he makes me sit down in a wide grey cotton couch while he gathers scattered papers all around his coffee table. The apartment is clean. Smells like coffee, and that cologne again.

 

 

I was expecting a little more wreck and ruins, to be honest. Trust Malcolm Tucker never to be where you expect him to be.

 

 

He brings me coffee, and sits in the armchair facing the couch. A stack of papers seems to take too much space on the left armrest, and he picks up his reading glasses from the table to sort them. That gesture again. That hasn't changed. Still the most elegant man I've ever known.

 

What has changed though, is that he's  _so quiet_ . 

He doesn't talk, barely looks at me.

 

Calm as a mountain lake. I don't think I've ever seen him that way. I am looking for that window to his soul again, the Big Bang to the slow decline of my life. But those things don't happen every week, of course. 

Of course.

 

 

He peacefully rearranges his papers, most of them handwritten, perfectly comfortable with our silence, as if my presence here was only natural. Something he'd planned for. As if that cup of coffee had already my bloody name on it.

 

 

And you know, maybe it had.

 

 

-”Malcolm, you wrote a letter to the PM.”

 

He looks at me over the rim of his glasses and something in me whimpers.

 

-”Yes I did.”

 

Window still closed. No peeking. No decoding. I have to ask.

 

-”Why? Why did you do that?”

 

He just smiles, sweetly. I don't think I've ever seen him smile like that. He gets up and lays down the armrest papers with the others, on the floor next to the table. He comes closer to the couch, looking at the street behind me through the tainted glass of his loggia, and something in me notices how magnificent he always has been.

 

-”Isn't it what you wanted?” he asks.

 

-”Why, yes, but... I was loosing it, Malcolm. I had everything I needed to get that job and I just let it pass by. I don't know what took over me, I... I felt...”

 

-”I know how you felt.”

 

 

-”How? How the hell do you know that?”

 

I realize I got up. I'm almost touching him, and he still doesn't look at me, his quiet eyes on the city street, in glorious afternoon light. That something in me is screaming now, and, how strange, it seems to be coming from where the black hole used to be one hour ago.

 

-”I've still got eyes in Number Ten.” He speaks softly. “I've still got eyes everywhere if you think about it. I know you didn't make a move. You were even thinking about quitting. Now, I couldn't let you do that could I? I had to give you a push. It was quite easy, Tom will always do as I say. Never learned to think by himself, that one.”

 

I know what has changed.

 

_He doesn't swear._

 

Malcolm Tucker doesn't swear, he doesn't even raise his voice and it's bloody terrifying.

 

 

 

 

He saved me. I was letting go, knocked out, count to ten. I was loosing. He could have let me sink back to the nobody I was when I first stepped into the DoSAC offices, but he didn't. He grabbed a pen and pulled his strings for me. He bloody willingly passed on his job to _me_.

 

 

Countless months I spent planning his fall, and some days spent actually helping it came back to me as a punch in the face. I betrayed him. I lied. I wanted him dead at my feet, my shoe upon his face. I wanted his job, his power, his everything. I wanted to be him so bad.

 

 

And instead of gloating at the way I crumbled down, pitiful and broken, at the first look into his soul, he wrote a letter.

 

He wrote **that** letter.

 

Oh, how I hate myself. Thank you, Malcolm, thank you very much.

 

 

He doesn't even look at me. Oh, look at me Malcolm. Speak to me. Punch me, kick me, break my bones in pieces, throw my name into the dust. Anything, but right now. Because that something in me, Malcolm, the stab wound of your empty gaze, it never healed, you know. It's in my chest, it's everywhere, and right now it's screaming in my head that I am a worm, and you are a King.

 

It's pushing me into you. As you stand on the edge of a cliff and step forward.

 

 

 

 

-”Malcolm.”

 

He still doesn't move, and my hand is on his arm before I can even think.

 

-” _Malcolm_.”

 

 

He turns to me at last, and if anyone would have told me two years ago how those eyes would be the end of me someday, how I'd have laughed.

 

How I'd have laughed.

 

 

-”Tell me how to pay off.” someone says, and I think it's me, _oh God, I'm going mad_.

 

 

 

His quiet, quiet eyes gently devour me whole, then, and he doesn't even have to speak. It's insane, it's absurd. But I'm not even surprised. It's nonsense, and it must be a joke, but it's allright.

 

It's allright.

 

Because from that exact moment at the Inquiry's door, I've slowly been turning into the dark matter he planted in me. With one glance he dragged me with him into the void.

It's all around my skin now, pushing me, pulling me.

 

 

 

 

As you stand on the edge of a cliff.

 

 

And step forward.

 

 

 

One step, I'm against him, and the rest of who I used to be burns into dust. He kisses me, hard and deep, in slow motions of lips and tongue, and God, I never thought he'd be so _good_. His mouth doesn't even leave mine as he closes the loggia curtains in two swift moves.

It only slides to my jawline, spreading gasoline fire down to my groin. His wet lips find my earlobe and suck on it.  _Oh, Lord, mercy on me_ . 

 

My knees are weak, and I'm less than a worm. A rag puppet in the wind of his breath. He grabs my waist to keep me from falling and whispers into my ear in a quiet commanding voice :

 

-”Undress. Sit down.”

 

My trembling hands start working my suit off as his words aren't even finished. Somehow I feel I'm being pathetic. I can't summon enough of myself back here to care. All I need are those eyes on me. I am positive I'll die the second he looks at anything else than me. Yes. Look at me. Eat me, exhaust me, destroy me.

 

Wipe out the black matter I've become.

 

 

 

I strip down to my boxers and the hand he used to grab me is now grazing my arm with distant interest. His eyes follow his fingertips on my skin through his reading glasses, as an art teacher would assess the quality of a student's sculpture. Whenever he touches me, fire rages on, destroying everything, burning me clean. As I move towards the couch his fingers grab my arm with such a deadly strength I can't but yelp. 

 

He nods towards my boxers and hisses :

 

-”Everything.”

 

 

I hastily get rid of them, mumbling apologies and pleas. Once I throw them on the pile of useless fabric I've made with my suit, he smiles again and his mouth attacks my neck. He bites hard, he hurts. I can't summon one last shred of pride. His thumbs are on my nipples and he draws firm circles there. His hair strokes my cheek and he's a King and I'm close to nothing.

 

I must whimper a bit too loud for his own tastes, and he winces in disgust. He grabs my face, inspects it with his chin up as he would the lamest draft for the lamest speech.

 

The story of who I used to be.

 

 

One of his thumbs brushes my lips, smearing my own spit on them, and his steel eyes narrow. He pushes me down, then, until I'm sitting on the couch, and he doesn't need to talk. It must be a dream, it must mean I'm dead, but I forgot how to care. I fumble with his belt, make my way through his pants and underpants, only pausing to look up to him as I graze his shaft with my trembling hand, trying to make him understand it's my first time with a man, and how _unfit_ I am going to be.

 

 

The King doesn't seem to want to hear anything from me. He just nods down at me again and it appears I don't get to choose what's next.

 

-”Go on.” he breathes.

 

 

And, gathering all knowledge I can deduce from my miserable love life, I open wide and engulf him. He's not too thick, but _Christ_ , he's long, and it takes everything I have not to gag. I try and focus, tongue, no teeth, start slow. Do it the way you'd like to get it. Don't think about the taste.

Though I expected much worse.

 

 

It's _him_ , after all.

 

His left hand settles on the back of my head, and it seems I don't get to choose the rhythm neither.

He pushes me to him, then grabs a handful of my hair to pull me away, and back again. I vaguely think about letting out some sort of protest, but there's that sound he makes. I look up, and the sight of him is breathtaking. Through his glasses his eyes are half-closed, dizzy and blurred. His thin lips parted, letting out sharp, shaking breaths.

 

_Oh._

 

So I'm not that unfit.

 

Something in me warms up with pride, and this is pitiful, but I lost sight of what is left of my dignity. Doesn't matter. I twist my tongue, swallow deeper, hum in bliss as his hips jerk violently. His right hand rushes to join the left, and he's gripping my hair hard enough to tear it out now. He hurts me so bad. I cannot care.

 

 

I have to part my legs further, because I'm stone-hard and leaking, and if I wasn't digging my nails into the sides of his thighs through the thick fabric of his jeans, I'd be finishing myself off in seconds.

 

It's a moan, now, a genuine moan he lets out. His voice is dusty and rough. Distant. Harsh.

 

It hurts every time the tip of his cock slams against my throat. Doesn't matter. He moans, and I'm doing this to him. That's all I want.

 

The last moan is almost a cry, and both of his hands stop me. I let go of him with a short, wet sound, and there's spit on my chin, and I almost come to the sight of his flushed cheeks. He doesn't give me time to smile.

 

He pushes me down into the couch and pins me here with one hand flat on my chest. He straddles my thighs, making a show of lavishly licking his own thin, graceful fingers, his intense stare never leaving mine. I think I'm lifting my own hips towards him in despair. He sneers.

 

And grabs my cock with a soaked, expert hand. I have no idea what he's doing, because my eyes are trapped by his and cannot leave his face, but I'm screaming his name in minutes. I'm screaming and begging and praising and I never could have guessed one day I'd sink so low. He is a king and I am nothing.

 

I am nothing.

 

My hands find the sleeves of the sweater he didn't even bother to take off, and I'm trembling so hard I could be seizing. Doesn't matter. I call him, again and again, and his face doesn't tell me much.

Only his pupils suddenly get wider as I shudder, and I come, hard, begging him in senseless prayers, drenching my stomach with seed.

 

I wish I could breathe, I wish I could speak, tell him to stop, ask him to talk to me.

 

I can't, my breath cut in pieces, the numb fire of pleasure burning me whole. I vaguely see him coating his fingers in my own come, but I cannot understand. I sense him lifting up my hips, lifting up my legs, but I cannot understand.

 

Until the sharp pain of two of his fingers in deep between my buttocks tells me how the story will end.

 

I wish I could scream, oh, please, Malcolm, stop, give me a minute, I barely had time to...

**Ngh-ah!**

 

 

He added one third, and oh God, it _hurts_.

 

It burns, it tears me apart. I try and try to tell him, my hands looking for his shoulders, begging for mercy. But the King has no mercy for shadows.

 

He leans down to me, his mouth devouring my neck, and his fingers twist inside me, doing something, I don't know what, but it almost feels like I'm coming again. It's almost too much for me to bear, and I wish I could shout.

 

But the King doesn't seem to want to hear anything from me.

 

He withdraws his hand and I feel cold. He pushes his cock in and I feel fire. _Oh._ So that's what it feels like. It feels like fire, like lead. It feels like I'm filled with him. Enough to burst, enough to die.

Lack of oxygen makes me dizzy. He's pounding me, merciless and fast, and I hear his moans come back to my ears from far away. He angles himself, and the white-light pleasure returns. I'm barely finished and I'm hard again, I never knew too much sex could hurt.

 

I wish I could shout.

 

All I give him are choked cries. Doesn't matter. I hear his own better if I stay silent.

 

 

His moves become frantic, and his fingers jolt back into my hair, sticky with come, doesn't matter. He yanks my head backwards and bites my earlobe so hard I think I'm bleeding. I cannot even yelp, I'm busy dying. It's so good, and it's _Hell_. It's everything, and it's far too much.

 

It's him, after all.

 

He roughly thrusts in me once, twice more, and lets out one, only one clear cry. I feel fire flowing inside me. It's gross, and it's amazing.

 

 

It's disgusting, and I need more.

 

 

I need him to keep on forever. But I am nothing, and he withdraws, spent and dazed, to lay down on me with a shuddering sigh. I manage to say his name once, with the little breath that's coming back to me, and his lazy eyes slowly open to crawl up to mine. I kiss him, then, as well as I can. He leans in gently, _oh, some mercy, at last._

 

 

 

Somehow as we pull apart he notices the state of me, still hard and needing, and with a weary smile, he distractedly encircles me with his hand again. I can even look, this time, as his fingers dance around my cock, slick with everything I had, and how his deft moves circle around the tip, slide up and down, applying pressure in measured paces.

 

It's magic, and he doesn't even seem to think about it. His eyes remain somewhere between my neck and the back of the couch, all along, until I tense and scream his name again. He kisses my cheek, then, once, and gets up, wincing as his back cracks loudly.

 

 

 

 

He uses his clean hand to adjust his reading glasses, and pick up a tissue from a box on the coffee table to wipe his other hand clean. In thirty seconds he's magnificent again, while I'm there, splayed naked on his couch, panting, sweating, my thighs and stomach soaked in spit and semen, my hair in a gross, sticky mess.

 

My mind blank and desperate.

 

He is a king.

 

I am nothing.

 

 

 

He burned me to smoke, he broke me in half. I am ashes. And I want this. I wanted every agony, every bruise of it. I walked into him, as you would stand on the edge of a cliff and step forward.

 

I stepped forward and crushed at his feet.

 

Because he grabbed a pen a wrote a letter. He pulled his strings for me.

 

 

 

 

I guess what those scattered papers are, now. From where I am, I can see chapter titles and handwriting. _He's writing a book_.

 

He's triggering the time bomb he's always been.

 

 

 

God, it'll be glorious. I can barely imagine the secrets, the lies, the filth and darkness, the soil, the rotting corpses inhabiting his head. Twenty years soaked in the worst of humanity. Everything those beautiful eyes have seen.

Hundreds will fall. Governments will resign. His legacy shall be a graveyard for everyone still walking in those offices.

 

He has strings to pull strings.

 

Beyond death.

Malcolm Tucker shall keep pulling.

 

 

I look up at him, and he's gorgeous. I want him more, I'll want him forever.

But he's drinking the rest of his coffee, opening the curtains again. He doesn't even look at me.

 

I am nothing.

 

 

-”Why did you save me then?”

 

He turns to me, his face carved in the delicate marble of Florence churches. The glowing light of London East is casting sparks in his glasses, painting white his silver hair.

 

-”Mh?”

 

-”I have been betraying you all along. You know it. I pushed you as you fell, I wanted you down. I am the worst of the human filth you're writing memoirs about. Why, then? Why did you write this letter? Why did you save me?

 

 

He smiles, then, sweetly. I don't think I ever saw him smiling that way.

 

 

 

He's so tall, towering above me in shining strength.

His voice is a sword blade wrapped in silk. His eyes are frost and steel.

As he slowly speaks, his gaze grows so cold I am forced to shiver, and my shame is like acid poured into my guts. I slowly curl into a ball, my eyes trapped by his own, suddenly _desperately_ not wanting to hear, but hearing all the same:

 

 

-” You will have this job, Oliver. I made sure you will. You will have this job and you will keep it. And from the moment you sit on that chair, the job will start to eat away at you. Erode you. Corrode you. Piece by piece of your soul, cell by cell of your body. You'll be gnawed on until your bones are white as snow. And because you're not the half of what I am, because you are nothing, you won't last half as long.

 

 

He walks very close to me, lifts up my chin with one finger and drops his last words as snake venom into an open wound :

 

-”You are disgusting. You are decay and sediment. You are an infection, growing on the walls of those old buildings, defiling their purpose, insulting their founders. You are nothing, Oliver Reeder, that's why I didn't save you. **I killed you**.”

 

He lets go of me, elegantly turning to his manuscript and grabbing it. While he walks away to the bedroom door, shuffling through his papers, he spits between his teeth the last words I'll ever hear from Malcolm Tucker :

 

 

_-”Get fucking dressed and get the fuck out.”_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
